Sunrise
by Plasticframed Paintings
Summary: You will never find anybody to love as much as you love me." YohxAnna centric


He watches dust motes float lazily by overhead, filtering through a weak stream of early morning light in the still-cool corridor. Pale colours, pale temperatures - he wonders if things have always been so faded.

"You will never find anybody to love as much as you have loved me_._"

The truth in her words ring through the empty hollow, and he enjoys their blunt honesty. Brutal, he knows, but it fits her only too perfectly.

She stands with her back to him, washed in the pale light and casting shadows on the floor, unlike the waves of bright dust still circulating over their heads. Briefly, he wonders how tiny a thing must become before it casts off its shadow like the dust has done. He wonders if he is that tiny; or if she has already seen the shadows that he knows-and-pretends are not there.

The rich, dark red of fabric is the only thing that his eyes can hold now, but he knows that her own are closed. That she, too, is enjoying the sun.  
He remembers the mornings that they spent together, watching suns rise and leave. He misses the familiarity of it. Monotony never bothered him, after all, and they both knew that he would easily choose repetition over change if things were good.

If things were good, he could relive them forever.

But she is not as passive about the world. Things call to her teasingly and flee from her outstretched fingers when she grasps for them. She loves him, but if he will not move with her, then she will move alone.

He knows this as well, and does not stop her from listening to the greater things that call her away this time. Wind is strong, but he has not had the time needed to hone it perfectly. Other things, too, are deserving of his fiance. New and powerful experiences that he could not give her. Better, more interesting people.

It is not her fault that he cannot keep up with her.

"I know."

Silence blankets the morning-cool hall now, and she decides to be kind and show one last passing gift of gratitude. The two watch the sun rise together, watch as the floorboards become increasingly illuminated and vibrant. Things are no longer faded here, and the flickering shapes of dust have all but vanished in the brilliance.

More minutes pass, and she shifts.

"I'm leaving."

He sighs and smiles - that smile that she loves so much. Warm and carefree, just as he is. She does not allow herself to turn around.

Honey illuminates once she steps off of the wooden slated porch and onto warming gravel. The sun favours her, and he is awestruck for the briefest of seconds by her beauty, by the sheer amount of colour - of light. Nothing pale exists here.

He wonders if he made the proper choice.

The gravel is the only noise that resonates through the late morning air, and he watches as she bunches up the fabric of her kimono around thin shoulders to stave off lingering cold.

"Make sure you stay warm."

He does not know if she will choose to acknowledge his advice or not. The steady footfall and crunch of gravel does not slow. Her posture remains poised, her gaze straight forward.

He watches until she is out of sight and not even the echoing crunch of sandal on rock remains. Only then does he allow himself to step into the sunlight as well. Arms stretch overhead and he gazes around the now-empty Inn, slouching over afterwards and letting out a yawn. Is it just his imagination playing tricks on him? Things have not looked this grey before.

White cotton is not a match for the roughness of unsanded pillars, but he does not care. It is wonderful back support for a wonderfully sunny day, and he wishes to sit as he thinks. A nap, he notes with an almost-amused laugh, sounds incredibly welcomed. But there is so much left to do.

The sky is almost too bright, and there are no clouds overhead to distract him from his restlessness. He reflects on her words.

Love, she said. He would never feel towards anybody the same way as he did towards her. He still loves, though. He loves the warm greetings, and watching shyness melt. He loves small, caring gestures, and worry just for him. He loves the soft accent, so foreign before but now so recognisable. He loves surprise visits, checking on him after a bout of the flu, making sure his fiance has yet to train him to the point of death.

He loves the fact that he can correctly predict increased visits in the future, after word gets out that the Inn has become empty.

Love is a central part of who he is, but he still tastes the sting of honesty.

He knows that nothing will ever hold the same emotional pull over him, even if he still loves. He knows that nothing will ever truly be the same.

He allows his eyes to close now, and revels in the warmth of the sun.

"Good bye, Anna."


End file.
